


Sewn

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos jerks back and gives him an amused, if exasperated glance.  “What’s this have to do with mending wounds?” (Coda fic for 1x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sewn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt requesting romantic cliches and hurt/comfort from the end of 1x03. First time writing this, so forgive any characterization eccentricities.

Porthos jerks up a bit with a gritting out curse but Aramis doesn’t withdraw his hand from where he is, yet again, cleaning the wound. 

“At least I know that if I were truly a seamstress, you’d keep my business going for years to come, my friend,” Aramis says conversationally and debates punching Porthos hard in the back of the head now to get it over with or to wait until he’s ready to actually stitch him up – he does so enjoy the conversation.

Except, Porthos’ only reply is to grunt – which means he’s either in more pain than he’s letting on, or he’s deemed Aramis’ attempts at conversation a ridiculous one and he’s deigning no reply. He does glance over his shoulder up at him, though, and there’s a touch of amusement there, so Aramis decides it’s somewhere in the middle. 

“It’s not as bad as it sounded when it ripped,” Aramis continues, meeting Porthos’ eye before Porthos shifts, resting his forehead against his folded arms. He almost shrugs before he thinks better of it and aborts the movement. Aramis’ hand presses over his back, avoiding the wound, thumb brushing over at least two other scars that etch deep into Porthos’ back. Aramis clucks his tongue as Porthos shifts under his fingertips. “Hold still or we’ll be here all night.” 

Aramis shifts his hand down over his back, touching absently at all the scars jagging over his skin – remembers each wound he stitched up, and the few Porthos acquired before their friendship ever began. He remembers each one, some better than others. His thumb traces over the long, jagged one that arches along the length of his spine. His index finger touches at the crescent-shaped scar curling upwards over his shoulder blade. His palm presses over the dark, angry groove of an old scar that slices across the back of his neck and jerks downward across one shoulder. Porthos doesn’t shiver, doesn’t tense up – almost does nothing at all at the touches. Light as they are, perhaps he just dismisses it as Aramis preparing his body for the needlework. Or, perhaps, he doesn’t so much dismiss it as he accepts it for what it is – the warm, gentle, and sympathetic touch of a trusted friend, for whom this back has been exposed many times. And would be many times again. 

Aramis remembers Porthos telling him once – that there’s no shame in carrying scars across your back, if done so in service of protection, of the crown, of the friendship and family he’s found. Perhaps not said in so many words, but Aramis knows what it is that Porthos means – knows that underneath that kind of vicious violence, there’s a romantic desire for the ideals the musketeers represent.

Maybe he’s a little swept up in the moment, because his fingers trace up over Porthos’ neck, brushes over the shell of his ear, touching at the lighter, shallow scars that knit there – the barest shadow of one against the column of his neck. He lifts his hand to touch at the prominent scar that scrapes down from forehead to cheek, above the eye. And nearly pokes Porthos in the eye for his troubles. 

Porthos jerks back and gives him an amused, if exasperated glance. “What’s this have to do with mending wounds?” 

Aramis tuts, and stubbornly traces his thumb down over the scar – since he’s there anyway and getting a little caught up in the moment of it, and despite his blustering he knows it’s only a matter of time before Porthos just sighs out and closes his eyes. Which he does a moment later, although his mouth threatens that same amusement, one side quirking up. 

“I’m just enjoying my skills,” Aramis says innocent and smiles, tipping his head down in deference to his friend. 

Porthos actually rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look exactly annoyed. There’s a tense nature to the corner of his eyes, betraying the pain he’s feeling from the reopened wound, but it’s a distant, subtle kind of pain – one that Porthos is used to carrying and isn’t exactly bothered by. But it’s enough to remind Aramis of his purpose and he pulls back to resume his work. 

Except then Porthos shifts under him, turning onto his back, exposing his chest to him – covered in a myriad collection of distant and recent scars. Aramis shifts in turn to accommodate him, straddling his legs and crossing his arms, amused despite himself even as he tries to chide. “I really can’t stitch you up when you’re like this.” 

Porthos just grins up at him, the kind that’s at once welcoming but perhaps a touch intimidating for those who don’t recognize the way it lights up his eyes, eyebrows lifting in a kind of mocking invitation. 

“Maybe I’m bored of the concerned nurse routine,” Porthos says, conversationally. 

“Is that what it is?” Aramis asks, and grins back in reply, planting his hands on either side of Porthos’ shoulders and leaning down, lifting his own eyebrows in turn. “You are a terrible patient, regardless – I should have known it’d be a lost cause.” 

Porthos grunts again, which is neither agreement nor denial, but it’s all the same – they both know Porthos is the worst patient around, and it’s a miracle that Aramis can stitch him up as well as he can without Porthos knocking down a wall in his efforts to carry on. 

Aramis lifts one hand, traces the long scar that cuts across Porthos’ collar and clavicle. He shifts his hand up, brushing his fingertips over his neck, never admitting to the small comfort he gets when he feels the spike in pulse when his thumb brushes at the underside of Porthos’ jaw. 

“Maybe you’re not so good a nurse as you think,” Porthos rumbles back, his voice a note lower than it was a moment ago, and Aramis feels the deep rasp of his throat underneath his fingertips.

All the same, Aramis takes it upon himself to reel back, placing a hand over his heart and blinking his eyes in his best shocked expression. “My dear friend, how you wound me.” 

Porthos snorts, not fooled for a moment – which is just as well, really. Aramis grins, dropping his hand down to rest over Porthos’ chest, just touching at the skin there, feeling the steady thump of a heartbeat underneath his thumb. 

“Are you actually going to play nurse anytime soon or was this just some attempt at touching me?” Porthos asks, and the touch of grumpiness there is most likely feigned, for if he truly hated the proceedings he wouldn’t be lying pliant beneath him. 

Aramis just smiles, slow and steady in the flickering light, and winks. “I’d never use such means to rob you of your virtue.” 

“Virtue,” Porthos snorts, and looks amused. He isn’t grinning anymore, but the lightness is in his eyes. He shifts, lifting his hand, and the small twinge of pain betrays him as it flickers across his eyes, hand settling on Aramis’ hip when, truthfully, it was probably aiming for higher. 

“Now then,” Aramis tuts, hand covering the one on his hip. “Enough of that. Joking aside, I _will_ have to mend that needlework. So,” he says conversationally, fingers curling through Porthos’ and tugging the hand away gently, pressing it back down to Porthos’ side and leaning in close, “I won’t allow you to strain yourself. No moving. Doctor’s orders.”

Porthos grunts and shifts as if to protest, but Aramis silences him by leaning in and kissing him, deceptively gentle and sweet, teeth scraping over his bottom lip and nibbling once. Aramis tilts his head a little – touches his nose to Porthos’ cheek, his smile curling over the corner of Porthos’ mouth. Porthos’ reply is a soft exhale and Aramis shifts, smile pressed to the jutting slope of his jaw, before he hums, low and small, in his own reply. 

Porthos closes his eyes when Aramis shifts back to kiss him again, nose bumping against his own almost playfully before he slots properly into place, warm puff of air betraying a laugh before he presses in close with a bit of pressure, kissing him. 

He does ease back a moment later, clearly amused as he blinks his eyes open, and Porthos can feel the smile more than see it as he stays close to his mouth.

“I said don’t move, my friend, but maybe move a little,” he amends with a laugh and Porthos scoffs out a small huff of laughter in turn and leans up to kiss him. He nudges his lips with Aramis’ as though to share a breath, the touch and gesture affectionate as he kisses Aramis back, capturing his upper lip, warm and a little wet, shifts to kiss his bottom lip with a little too much concentration, the bite a little rougher than strictly necessary – a sort of payback for the hand that touches his shoulder a little too firmly to really insist on the ‘not moving’ command. 

Aramis hums again, low sound of approval, and kisses him in shorter bursts this time, going for the corner of his mouth, titling his head as he nibbles at Porthos’ bottom lip and presses closer, biting back in turn and muffling a grin as he kisses at the pout that forms, suckling and licking and kissing him deeply and silently thrills at the deep, throaty breath that earns him. He pulls back, hand coming up to frame Porthos’ face, unable to stop himself from letting his thumb trace over the scar on his cheek, heavy palm to the curve of his jaw to keep Porthos from leaning up to kiss him again, his breathing a little heavy. 

“How’s that for the concerned nurse routine?” Aramis asks conversationally, acting as if Porthos’ mouth isn’t already kiss-swollen, with Porthos himself half-naked and sprawled out beneath him. That’s all well and good, of course – but grinning at him and teasing him is, of course, completely necessary. 

Porthos’ shoulder twitches as he attempts to lift his hand again to touch Aramis, but Aramis tuts and holds him down, trying to look stern but really just looking amused. “Now, now,” he says, smoothing his thumb over Porthos’ frown, lingering, “Easy now, my friend.” 

He leans in close again, thumb shifting to stroke along Porthos’ jaw and cheek. And if his forehead presses against Porthos’ in a touch of affection, then, well, he knows neither of them will say as much nor risk actually pointing it out. He smiles, breathing out a soft laugh that marks the exact space between their lips – and Aramis can feel how much Porthos wants to arch up and capture that distance again, to tilt up for more contact. 

“Remember your hands,” Aramis reminds him with a small laugh again, and if he turns his head a little and their noses bump, it’s hardly anything to note on, and he brushes his smiling mouth against Porthos’, the barest hint of a touch, hardly a kiss at all. He brushes his words against Porthos’ skin, kissing his mouth and over his jaw and cheekbone, following the straight line of his scar, “Hold them still. Unless you don’t trust I can do well to nurse you?” 

Porthos sighs out, looking as if he will protest, but ultimately does relent, hand going lax under Aramis’ hold. Aramis smiles, a touch gentle, before leaning in and folding his lips against Porthos’ in a mindless little kiss, his smile curling when Porthos returns it – as he knew he would, of course – and shivers appreciatively at the way Porthos responds, knows how desperately Porthos wishes to touch him in turn. He kisses him, distracting, one hand sliding down over Porthos’ naked chest, his sentiment meaning he must trace over every scar he encounters, and his other hand resting on his shoulder, to keep him down – the touch light so as not to hurt him. 

“It’s only one shoulder injured,” Porthos mutters into the kiss, and the kiss grows sloppy because of it, teeth and tongue, and Aramis chuckles and does not protest when Porthos’ uninjured shoulder rolls and a hand touches the back of his neck, hardly a touch at all at first before it grows heavy, just resting there, one finger curled around one lock of hair and dragging him down closer, deepening the kiss. 

And then he pulls at Aramis, a rough, almost possessive movement, but Aramis arches down willingly, his own hand sliding over his ribs and side and laughs softly, blinking his eyes open for a moment to see Porthos looking at him sharply over the blur of his lashes, the side of his nose, the hand tight on his neck. 

“I really should redress that wound,” Aramis says, almost conversationally, blinking in that mockingly demure way of his, just to see Porthos’ reaction. 

Porthos makes a soft, strained sound and then the warm lips are back, quicker this time, three kisses, one for each lip and then the corner of his mouth and Aramis doesn’t bother to hold back the appreciative sound that elicits, his smile curling further and opens his mouths lightly, sucks in Porthos’ lip, his thumb tracing over the coarse hair that runs from belly button to the line of his trousers – and then can’t hold back the deprecating comment of, “Oh, there you are,” when Porthos’ hips buck up to meet him. He laughs softly and shakes his head, pressing his tongue over his bottom lip as he whispers, “I said not to move.” 

Porthos closes his eyes again, grunting – mostly, Aramis can tell, in frustration. His hand strokes over his stomach in sympathetic apology, although he does nothing to remedy that frustration, instead pressing against the dip of Porthos’ lip and stutters out a soft, breathless lap when Porthos gives a languid, beguiling lick to his upper lip. Aramis can only respond in the gentlemanly manner: sucking harder, using more tongue, smoothing it over before biting and licking again, rinse and repeat. Perhaps Porthos attempts to do the same, but it’s clear he’s distracted, but it’s only a few moments for the natural progression of Aramis’ attentions, and Aramis presses an open-mouthed kiss to Porthos’ mouth, letting Porthos lick into his mouth, slowly, going deeper and pressing closer when Porthos lets himself moan into the kiss, tilting his chin up for a better angle, the hand on Aramis’ neck shifting up to curl tight into his hair, tugging so that Aramis feels it deep down in a shiver that leaves him breathless for a moment longer than strictly necessary and rolls his tongue against Porthos, traces over the flats of his mouth, all teeth and tongue and lips, his touches at once playful and insistent in his intentions. 

Aramis takes it further, deepening the kiss for the sake of hearing those sounds from Porthos, one of his favorite things, really, about the moments when they indulge in these ministrations. He sucks on Porthos’ tongue, stealing the air from his lungs and Porthos’ hips stutter upward, shift and try to slot against Aramis even as Aramis stubbornly, playfully, lifts his hips away, mouthing quietly against his lips, “Not yet.” 

He pulls back to grin, to survey Porthos’ expression – amused when, indeed, he is receiving _a look_. He winks, although perhaps the effect is lost when they’re both breathing heavily and flushed. All the same, he traces his hand up over Porthos’ chest, his other hand lifting from his shoulder to touch his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone as he allows himself to indulge in the full extent of his affection for Porthos. He knows Porthos won’t hold it against him or judge him for it, especially when he can see that affection mirrored back. Porthos’ lips are truly swollen now, and his skin looks sensitive from where their stubble keeps scraping together. 

“Have I ever told you the teasing can get tiresome?” Porthos mutters but also doesn’t look entirely bothered. 

Aramis beams, shifting to rest his chin on his palm, elbow planting against the spot beside Porthos’ shoulder. “Oh, tell me more.” 

He traces his other hand over his chest, absently, not so much touching the scars as he just traces patterns absently over Porthos’ chest – and his smile is gentle when his fingers start forming the familiar cuts and slopes of the fleur de lis. 

“You’re feeling alright?” he asks, in seriousness for a moment.

Porthos rolls his eyes and shifts up under his hand, frowning pointedly. 

Aramis laughs. And he laughs again, not the least bit surprised when Porthos grabs his shoulder and heaves, rolling them so that Aramis presses down flat onto his back, smiling up at Porthos as Porthos settles between his legs and presses the entire length of his body against him. Aramis knew it was only a matter of time before Porthos did as much, impatient as he is. 

“You truly don’t appreciate the art of seduction,” Aramis laments, trying to muffle the full extent of his grin. He lifts his arms to curl them around Porthos’ shoulders, to hold him close and to covertly test the extent of the injury, to make sure it is not aggravated. When he pulls his hand back, there is no blood, which is a good sign – he’ll still need to clean and redress it, but t least it has clotted. As he’d said before, the extent of the re-injury wasn’t as badly as previously thought – it’ll hardly need any re-stitching. 

Porthos doesn’t reply save for a soft snort, but it’s just as well – he is tragically resilient to his better charms – but he does kiss Aramis in a different way now, seeking his mouth with a kind of gentle care but meeting him halfway, not holding back a throaty little moan when Aramis kisses him, dirty and desperate, chasing the headiness into him, punctuating Portho’s ministrations with a soft, encouraging _Porthos_ that he knows he enjoys, letting his hands rest against him. He arches up a little when Porthos ducks his head to kiss him again, needy and demanding. He sighs out softly and lets Porthos take the lead, sprawled out beneath him, hands resting on his shoulders, but only one hand kneading encouragingly, the other hand just soft and gentle over the wound there. 

Porthos kisses him, messy and pressing close, and Aramis squirms a little beneath him, kissing him back willingly even as he arches up and, purposefully, slowly, slides his leg up, thigh grazing between Porthos’ legs and pressing up against the hard bulge of his cock, and delights when Porthos stutters out a soft groan and presses down, rutting against him as his hips snap to meet him and Aramis groans in reply, low and appreciative, his hands falling down to still on his hips, holding him. 

He arches up, breaking the kiss to press his face against Porthos’ shoulder, hiding his smile as he slides his mouth against the side of Porthos’ neck, nuzzling, breathing hard. 

“Eager as always, my friend,” Aramis says with a laugh, hands cupping his hips and squeezing, then sliding down to help him with the laces of his trousers when Porthos makes a frustrated sound, doing away with the belt easily and quickly, kissing and licking at his neck as Porthos forces his shirt upwards, revealing his stomach. 

“As if that isn’t your intention,” is Porthos’ reply, quiet and – yes, eager. 

Aramis laughs. “I suppose I’d be insulted if you weren’t so.” 

“You’d take it as a challenge.”

“Perhaps,” Aramis says, and knows it’s true. He presses a wet kiss to his neck, biting and licking and moving his way up to nibble at his earlobe, suckling around the earring. Porthos makes a tortured sound, hips hitching up against Aramis and Aramis smiles, triumphant, and presses half-hearted bites against his neck, brushing his lips in soft little patterns, sucking and licking at will, haphazard, working his way down his neck and over his shoulder, following and tracing the lines of his muscles and scars, tasting his skin and smiling at the low, rumbling sounds that Porthos always makes. 

Porthos’ hands shift, one pressing over his stomach and the other curling tight into his hair. He shifts, trying to accommodate his own weight and the angle without upsetting the deep ache in his shoulder, and his fingers meander and skirt over the hard muscle of Aramis’ chest. Aramis holds to his hips, hands shifting to press against his back, kneading into the small of his back, just before the swell of his backside, trying to tug him down closer, encouraging, suckling soft marks into his shoulder. And then their hips slot together and their breaths hitch together, and Aramis groans quietly, rocking his hips up so the hard swell of his cock presses up against Porthos’. 

“Yes,” Aramis sighs out happily around Porthos’ adams apple as Porthos divulges Aramis of his trousers, tugging them down over his hips and curling his hand around his cock, stroking quickly. Aramis arches up, nodding his head in encouragement as he nuzzles into Porthos’ neck. 

Porthos’ touch is surprisingly light, almost teasing, and Aramis drags his lips up over his neck and seeks his mouth instead, kissing him firmly, soundly, rocking his hips encouragingly into the touch of his hand as the fingers curl down the length of his cock, thumb pressing at the head and swirling down, following the insistent shift of Aramis’ hips. 

Porthos shifts as he touches him, ruts against Aramis’ hip, and Aramis can’t help but smile, chuckle into the kiss as he bites and licks at his bottom lip, freeing one hand to duck in between the two of them, touching Porthos’ cock with a practiced ease, stroking him in the way he knows he likes – a little too quickly, the friction a tight corkscrew around the cockhead. He smiles his victory when Porthos grunts appreciatively into his mouth. 

Really, there’s something to be said about these moments they occasionally share – how easily they fall into it, how the simple touches and sounds are enough to convey their thoughts, how he can remember just the way that Porthos’ back shifts and arches, or the way his hips stutter when Aramis does that thing with his hand that Porthos particularly likes. There’s something to be said about the long, slow courtship he’ll partake in with various women (and men) and there’s certainly something to love about the slow, steady slide of skin and touches and kisses, feeling that gentled weight of a woman on top of him – but there’s something about this that Aramis likes as well: that firm, bulked weight of Porthos above him, the smell – which is not entirely pleasant but Aramis has long since grown used to, the scrape of stubble on his cheek and chest and shoulder, the squared touch of a man’s palm against his cock—

And the way that he and Porthos fall back easily into their routine, without recompense or expectation. There’s a certain freedom in that loyalty and trust. A certain freedom that he knows Porthos values, as well. 

As it stands, though, he can feel the way Porthos shifts above him – far too used to his body in pleasure to recognize it when something is shifted off. He pulls back, studying his face – and he can see the discomfort the movement causes him. Too much weight on his shoulder. Aramis almost insists on shoving him back onto his back, but fears the tussle that would result, or truly ripping his stitches for entirely more exciting reasons than fighting. 

“Please, I must insist,” Aramis says, and allows the full weight of his concern to color his voice – free of the teasing. Even so, he smiles, and brushes Porthos’ hand away, curling his fingers around both their cocks and stroking. “The worst afterglow would be to dress your wounds all over again, dear Porthos.” 

He slots their hips together, hand curled easily around their cocks and he strokes them quickly – suiting Porthos’ preferred speed over the kind of sensual slowness Aramis himself typically enjoys. He strokes them off quickly and he can tell from the shuddering movement of Porthos’ hips that he’s close. Aramis leans up and kisses him until he feels the hot release between them, and follows a moment later, spilling over his stomach. 

Their breathing is erratic, and they fall still. Aramis drinks in these moments, always enjoying the way their breath seems to mingle, chests pressed together, Porthos’ head ducked to rest against Aramis’ shoulder. He allows himself to smile, perhaps a bit foolishly, and nuzzles against Porthos’ neck, nipping at his ear before pulling back and slumping with a sigh, hands brushing over Porthos’ arms absently, waiting until Porthos shifts onto his undisturbed side next to him to stretch, long and lazy like a cat, and tuck his arms behind his head, body arched like a bow. 

“There, that wasn’t so bad,” he says, pleasantly enough, and laughs when Porthos makes a strange sound – as if torn between a snort and a grunt. “Perhaps this is a preferred way to knock you out before fixing you up.”

Porthos grunts again, pliant and sated beside him, eyes closed and looking perfectly lazy. Aramis rolls onto his side, lifting a hand to touch at Portho’s back, smoothing his fingertips down over his spine and feeling Porthos shift into the touch, relaxed and trusting. 

Aramis allows himself the indulgence of resting beside Porthos, shifting to accommodate Porthos when he rolls onto his stomach, sighing out and closing his eyes, seeming to doze – he always goes practically comatose after sex in a way that Aramis always finds endearing. He strokes his hand down his back, touching at scars absently but mostly just using it as an excuse to calm Porthos, to have him enjoy this quiet moment before he undoubtedly starts squirming about the needlework. 

Eventually, though, he gets up in order to fetch a cloth to clean himself and Porthos, as well as some alcohol to sterilize the wound in his back. And, yes, Porthos squirms and curses when he does it, but in that quiet kind of way of someone already halfway to sleep. 

He waits until he’s sure Porthos is actually sleeping, once he’s done, before cleaning his hands and leaning down, kissing every scar on his back, comforting, almost cherishing. 

And then he stands to fetch more alcohol for when Porthos awakens – because undoubtedly he’ll want it.


End file.
